


Can't Buy Me Love

by little_murmaider



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Bad Flirting, Fertilityklok Epilogue, Gen, Let Skwisgaar Be A Rascally Goofball 2K17, Pick-Up Lines, Slightly better flirting, drinking buddies, eventually, tumblr requests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 20:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_murmaider/pseuds/little_murmaider
Summary: After eviscerating Murderface in their bet, Skwisgaar offers some tips on wooing the ladies.





	Can't Buy Me Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pearly_Pornography](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/gifts).



> Tumblr request for Pearly_Pornography, who wanted to see Skwisgaar being nice to Murderface!

“Okay,” Murderface mumbled, slouched over his fourth beer of the evening. “What are we doing here, again.”  
  
The nightclub was mostly deserted, which was to be expected on a Wednesday night. Aside from the local drunks and a table of vacationing gal pals in the corner, Skwisgaar and Murderface had the place to themselves. As an extra precaution, they were incognito: Each donned  _ That’s Doable!  _ caps, rendering them unrecognizable. (Murderface also wore a pair of reflective aviators, and Skwisgaar sported Toki’s favorite hoodie that had been “missing” for six months.)  
  
Skwisgaar waved for the bartender’s attention, pointed to his empty martini glass, then gave a thumbs up.  
  
“I’s gonna helps you gets laid.”  
  
“Uh-huh. And why, pray tell, would you do that.”  
  
The bartender made quick work crafting a new beverage, topping Skwisgaar off, then slinking to the other end of the bar. Skwisgaar lifted the glass by the stem and sipped delicately, side-eyeing Murderface.  
  
“Ams you kidding mes? We’s discussed all dis befores we lefts de house.”  
  
“Well ex- _ cuuuuuuuusche _ me for schtill being a  _ little _ schkeptical when the guy who schpent the lasct two weeks humiliating me with hisch non-schtop pusschy parade schays he wantsch to help me get laid,” he said.  
  
“Why you agrees to comes, ifs you still harbors dese doubts abouts mine intentions?” Skwisgaar traced the rim of his glass with the tip of his finger. “Ams you dat desperate?”   
  
Murderface sputtered a noise jumble of disbelief.  
  
“ _ Deschperate _ ?!” he yelped after a full minute of indignation. “ _ I’m _ not deschperate!  _ You’re _ deschperate! I can get any lady I want any day of the week!”  
  
Skwisgaar dropped his chin into his palm, a smirk crawling across his lips.  
  
“Moidafaaaaaace,” he drawled. “We ams past de points of primitive posturings, my friends. De bet ams over, and de numbers don’t lies.”  
  
Murderface’s mouth hung open, poised for a response, but confronted with his own failure, he had none. He slumped back in his seat, crossing his arms over his bulbous, soft belly.  
  
“Be schtraight with me, Schkwishgaar,” his tone was defeated, low enough that Skwisgaar had to lean in to hear him. “Why are you doing thisch?”  
  
Skwisgaar’s smirk faltered. When he and Murderface made their wager, Skwisgaar knew all along he would annihilate him. But he wanted to  _ really _ decimate him--go all scorched earth, salt the remains, mortify him so bad he’d never be able to get a boner again. But seeing him at the end of the bet, dick swathed in bandages, forced to admit he couldn’t close the deal with  _ one single woman _ , Skwisgaar didn’t feel as he expected to. Instead of pride, he felt the smallest twitch of guilt, and a little embarrassed, for how he’d allowed his competitiveness to cloud his judgement. Murderface’s self-worth was already in the dirt; he didn’t need Skwisgaar to bury it.  
  
Of course he couldn’t say any of that. He wasn’t about to let it get out that he had feelings besides  _ angry _ and  _ hungry _ . He shrugged.  
  
“I ams always lookingks for opportunities to spread mine knowledge to de masses.”  
  
“You do a lot of schpreading for the masshesh, alright,” Murderface stage-whispered.  
  
Skwisgaar let it slide; he deserved that one. He sighed, laying a hand on Murderface’s wrist.  
  
“You amn’ts de woirst lookingks guy in de woirld, Moidaface,” he said. “And you amn’ts de woirst guy to pals arounds wif. I t’inks you problems ams wif you’s approach.”  
  
Murderface eyed him warily. “Really?”  
  
“You comes off, ehhhhhhhh--” he stalled as he thought of a better way to say  _ a weirdo asshole coming outside after a lifetime locked in a bell tower  _  “--hhhhhhhh a little strongs! Once we fix dat, you’s gonna gets so many wimins you ain’ts gonna know  _ whats _ to does wif dem!”  
  
“Fuck them.”  
  
Skwisgaar squinted. “Euygh?”  
  
“I’m gonna fuck them. That’sch the whole point, to fuck them.”  
  
“Ja, I knows, I was just--”  
  
“What  _ elsche _ am I going to do with them, if not fuck them, you  _ imbeschile _ .”  
  
“Moidaface it ams just a toirns of phrase.”  
  
“I  _ know _ what I’m doing to do with them, and that’sch  _ fuck them _ , obviouschly! God! You can be scho obstusche schometimes, Schkwishgaar, you know that?”  
  
“Does you wants my help or nots?” Skwisgaar snapped, swallowing down his annoyance. Murderface rolled his tongue across his teeth. After a long, thoughtful pull from his bottle, he wiped at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
“ _ Fine _ ,” he said, taking another drink. Skwisgaar straightened, clapping his hands together.  
  
“Greats! Nows, foirst t’ings foirst, I gots to figure outs what I ams workings wif. Talks to mes likes you ams tryings to puts your you-know-whats in mes.”  
  
A spray of beer erupted from Murderface’s lips.  
  
“ **_What_ ** ?!” he choked.  
  
“If I ams goingks to fix de problems, I needs to experience it foirst hands,” he said with a blasé lift of his shoulders. “Gives to me your best lines. Lays it ons me.”  
  
“But you’re not a lady!”  
  
“ _ Pretends _ I’m a ladies!”  
  
“That schouldn’t be too hard,” Murderface grumbled. Skwisgaar pushed his seat back and rose to leave.  
  
“I’s tryingks to does somet’ings nice but if you amn’ts goingks to appreciate mine efforts, you cans have funs beingks sell-eee-butts for de rest of your miserables little life.”  
  
“Wait wait wait,” Murderface said, clawing at Skwisgaar’s forearm. “I’m schorry, I didn’t mean it. You were right, I’m  _ deschperate _ , I gotta get laid, I juscht gotta! Help me out, bro?” Skwisgaar winced as Murderface clutched him in a vice-grip. “Pleasche? Bro? Be a bro, won’t you, bro? I’m in my hour of need bro, and bro--”  
  
“Ugh, fines,” Skwisgaar snatched his arm out of Murderface’s hands and sat. “Onlys if you stops callingks me bro.”  
  
“No problem brrrrrrrr--”  
  
Skwisgaar fixed him with a glower.  
  
“--uuuuuuuuddy? Bruddy. My buddy who isch alscho my bro.”   
  
Though his drink was unfinished, Skwisgaar motioned at the bartender for two more.  
  
“Okays, so,” he swiveled in his seat to face his bandmate head-on. “Let’s pretends. I ams a beautiful ladies. Dese am my boobies.”  
  
He cupped his hands in front of his chest, thumbs poking out from holes in the cuffs of his sleeves. He stared at his hands in contemplation. Jostling them as if comparing the weights of two enormous melons, he giggled.  
  
“ _ What _ are you doing,” Murderface scoffed.  
  
“Playingks wif dem,  _ hueuh hueuh hueeeeeeeuh _ .”  
  
“You are  _ scho _ juvenile.”  
  
“I bets if I was a lady I woulds have pretty big boobies.”   
  
“Probably,” Murderface pinched his chin in thought. “It’sch geneticsh. Look at the rack on your mom. Her titsch are  _ huge _ .”  
  
Skwisgaar’s expression withered, fingers bending into claws.  
  
“Why you gots to does dat, eh?” His arms flopped to his sides. “Why you gots to makes me t’ink abouts my mom’s tit?”  
  
“Sche’sch got a real rack of lamb up there, what can I schay.”  
  
“ **_Williams_ ** .”  
  
“Schorry, schorry. Talk to you like a lady. Alright, got it. Here goesch. I come up to you, real casual, real cool, and I schay schomething like--”  
  
He peered at Skwisgaar over the rims of his glasses, and winked.  
  
“Hey baby. That’sch a real nische top. Not what I would have picked out, but it’sch cute. It’sch cute.”  
  
Skwisgaar wrinkled his nose.  
  
“Looksch a little schmall on you though, doeschn’t it? You schould have schized up.”  
  
“Yeugh.”  
  
“It’sch a really nische color, though. Bringsch out your eyesch, and does a great job dischtracting from all your blackheadsch--”  
  
“Stop,  _ stops, _ ” Skwisgaar waved his arms between them like he was putting out a fire. “Dat was  _ so bads _ . Holy shits.”  
  
“What? What are you talking about, that wasch gold!” Murderface yelped, looking indignant. “Which part wasch bad?”  
  
“Alls of its!”  
  
“But I did everything the Skank Whischperer scaid to do!”  
  
Raising his glasses in either hand, Skwisgaar threw back both drinks in one gulp. The liquor burned the whole way down. This was going to be much harder than he anticipated.  
  
“Who ams dis Skank Whisperers?” he said.  
  
“Who’sch the...really? The pick up artischt?”  
  
Skwisgaar shook his head.  
  
“He’sch got all thesche videosch on the bescht waysch to get ladiesch to schleep with you.  _ Very _ refined. I’m schurprisched you haven’t heard of him.”  
  
“Dis...Whisperer of Skanks, he says to be means to de ladies?”  
  
“No! He schays you need to gradually chip away at her schelf eschteem until sche feelsch scho bad about herschelf sche  _ hasch _ to go home with you! It’sch foolproof!”  
  
Oh boy.  
  
“Dis guy sound likes a maroon.”  
  
“He’sch a  _ geniusch _ ! He hasch a YouTube channel! They don’t give thosche out to juscht anybody.”  
  
The bartender had replenished his drink without prompting, for which Skwisgaar was grateful. He took a long, long drink before answering.  
  
“What you just says, you does dat every times?”  
  
“Of coursche!”  
  
“Ands how many time has it worked?”  
  
The flummoxed flush that spread across Murderface’s face said everything.  
  
“It haschn’t... _ yet _ . B-But that juscht meansch I’m not doing it right!”  
  
“T’inks abouts it likes dis,” he said. “We ams in de studios, and you just puts down whats you t’ink ams a really sick baselines. And den  _ I _ says somet’ing, likes,  _ the ways you plays made my brains feels like it was beaten to deaths by a sock fulls of Pickle Nickle _ . How woulds dat makes you feels?”  
  
“I would take that asch a compliment!  To inschpire that kind of violence with my playing? That'sch an art. That’sch a schkill that I try to emulate.”  
  
Skwisgaar sighed so hard he thought his lungs would expel from his body.  
  
“Allows me to rephrase. If I was to says somet’ings, eh, off de tops of my heads,  _ your hands needs to be tried for war crimes you stupid inadequates cesspools of filths _ …”  
  
Murderface glared.  
  
“...woulds you wants to pals around wif mes afterwards?”  
  
“ **No,** assschhole, I wouldn’t want to schpend  _ more _ time with you! I'd want to get as far away from you as posschible!”  
  
Skwisgaar took a sip, waiting for it to sink in.  
  
“But I don't schee what that hasch to do with picking up chicksch! You schaid you were gonna help me, and you haven’t done anything--  
  
He stopped. If he listened closely enough, Skwisgaar could swear he heard the egg timer in Murderface’s head click faster, faster, faster, then blare out with a resounding  _ ding _ .  
  
“OH.”  
  
“Dere you goes.”  
  
“That’sch how I’m making the ladiesch feel!”  
  
“Good job, pals. You gots it dere.” He grimaced, the hold on his glass tightening. “ _ Eventuallys _ .”  
  
“They’re not schleeping with me becausche they think I’m a dick! Being mean and making them feel bad ischn’t helpful at all!”  
  
Skwisgaar idly wondered if maybe,  _ maybe _ he should re-evaluate how he speaks to Murderface and Toki in the studio. Before he could steep too far into introspection, Murderface grabbed him by the collar and shook him like a rag doll.  
  
“Everything I know isch a lie! I have no idea what I’m doing! I’m never going to have schex again! You gotta help me, Schkwishgaar, schave me! Scave me from myschelf!”  
  
“ **Lets me goes you fucking idiots.”  
  
** Murderface released him. Readjusting his cap, which had become askew in the frenzy, Skwisgaar reclined like a wise king.  
  
“You’re too in yours head. Talking to ladies amn’ts as comp-lee-cates-ted as you t’inks it ams.”  
  
“Easchy for  _ you _ to schay.”  
  
“You just needs to break de ice. Your instincts to compliments dem ams good. Tries dat, but wifouts undercutting its wif dat Skank Whisperers bullshit.”  
  
“Scho.” He thought for a moment. “What if I schaid schomething ike, ‘Niche boots. Bet they’d be really good for kicking schomeone’sch teeth in.'”  
  
Skwisgaar tilted his head. “I means, ja, ifs you t’inks dat ams de kinds of t’ings she woulds receive positivelys, shore, why nots? De important t’ings ams starting de conversation, and seeing where it goes froms dere.”  
  
“Huh. Schtarting a converschation.” Murderface looked enlightened, like he was being trailed by the sounds of churchbells. “Yeah! I can do that!”  
  
“You’re doing its right nows!”  
  
“You’re right, I am! And thisch converscation isch going great!”  
  
“I’d give it a B-, but okays!”  
  
“I can totally do that!”  
  
“Why don’ts you try right nows?” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the table of women in the corner, tittering over their mai tais. “Go talks to dem, see how it works out.”  
  
He looked them over, glowing with newfound confidence. “I can do that!”  
  
“Ja!”  
  
“Yeah!”  
  
“You ams a champion of industries!”  
  
“I am! I’m a fucking schuperschtar!”  
  
“Yeahs!”  
  
“I’m gonna go over there, and I’m gonna schtart a converschation!”  
  
“Dat’s de spirit!”  
  
“With thosche ladiesch! Over there!”  
  
“Maybe you wants to freshen ups foirst?”  
  
Murderface touched his forehead; it came back drenched in sweat. He fingergunned as he walked backwards towards the men’s room.  
  
  
“I’m gonna freschen up, have a few anxiety pukesch, and I’m gonna come back and charm the pantsch off those ladiesch! Literally! It’sch gonna happen!”   
  
Skwisgaar watched him go, bumping into unoccupied tables and chairs in his path. Once he vanished into the bathroom, Skwisgaar beckoned over the bartender with a single finger. When she came close, he hunched close to catch her ear, and he slid three hundred dollar bills across the marble. He’d meant what he said earlier, but it didn’t hurt to hedge his bets.  
  
“Tells dose ladies dat if deys ams nice to de guys what ams goingks to comes talks to dems, I’ll pays their tab.”  
  
At the end of the night, Skwisgaar left the bar on the hook for a $1,100 bill. Murderface left with three phone numbers.   


**Author's Note:**

> Toki’s favorite hoodie is mauve and has little cat ears on the hood and is SO SOFT. Whenever Toki catches Skwisgaar wearing it, Skwisgaar insists Toki's thinking of a different hoodie. Works every time.


End file.
